


little one

by sweetestsight



Series: parallax [5]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Solarpunk AU, Truth Serums, i tried to keep this light. i failed, paul once again being used as a stand-in villain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 01:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: “I keep having this dream,” John says, and his head spins.





	little one

“I keep having this dream,” John says.

The man across the table rests his cigarette in an ashtray—an Old World habit with a peculiar sort of charm and a horrible stench that comes along with it. He looks at John, assessing, eyes warm and encouraging and blue, so so blue, blue like a clear sky. No, not a clear sky, slightly different. Clear skies are sun and warm and promise and _Roger._

Where’s Roger? His head feels fuzzy and he can’t make sense of it. He takes another sip of his tea.

When did he get tea?

“Go on,” the man says gently.

Dreaming. Right. “Am I dreaming?” John asks.

“No,” the man says with a huff of laughter and smoke. He turns to survey the grounds of the stone mansion from their place on its grand patio. “No, you’re not dreaming.”

“It feels like I am.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment to the beauty of our grounds here.”

“Is this Virida?”

That has the man glancing over sharply. “Virida? What do you know of it?”

Virida, Terra Sperum, the hope of the Sirius system, a planet all blue and green and untouched with pollution, a place where everyone could live a simple life of peace. _Baby blue take me, my dreamer, believer,_ sung low and clear in the cocoon of their bed. _My little one lives on a planet of green._

The lyrics cut through the haze like a knife. A secret; _a secret we don’t share, only with our nearest and dearest. We’re quite a bit superstitious about these things, darling._

“Virida’s a myth,” John says with a giggle. “Surely you’re not dumb enough to believe storybooks.”

He doesn’t quite miss the way the man rolls his eyes. “It’s more than a myth. You should know.”

“Maybe so.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s,” he says, pausing for dramatic effect as he reaches across the table to poke the man’s chest, “right here.”

The man stares at him for a long moment before plastering on a smile. “More tea?” he asks lightly. He snaps his fingers and a nurse steps forward, refilling John’s cup with a tight smile.

“Thanks,” John mumbles. His head spins.

“Tell me about your dream,” the man says, voice low and mesmerizing.

His dream. Right. “I have this dream that I’m just waking up, and I’m all alone.”

“That sounds lonely. Are you on Virida?” the man asks probingly.

“No. I’m in the ship. Why would I be on Virida?”

“What is the name of your ship?”

“Didn’t have a name,” he replies with a grin. It hadn’t, not really. At first it had been _Queen Elizabeth II,_ whoever the fuck that was. And then a mishap with their first test drive and Roger’s overeager steering had turned that into nothing but a smear of dust until they’d gotten around to scrubbing it off a few months later, leaving a shortened version in its wake.

“Do you remember anything about it? The ship?”

“I could tell you every single thing about that ship,” he says, taking a gulp of tea. “Make, model, year, the exact parts I spliced in to fix the fucked up wiring in the loading bay. I’d never forget that ship.” He pauses. “What were we talking about?”

“Your ship,” the man says, voice pinched and impatient.

John frowns to himself. “No, that wasn’t it. Oh. My dream.”

“Yes, that was it. You were on the ship. Where was it going?”

“It was parked. We weren’t going anywhere. I’m waking up, and I see blue.”

“What’s blue? Virida?”

“What is _with_ you and Virida? No, it’s flowers on my bedside table. They come into focus slowly.”

The man sighs. “And then what happens?”

“The door opens. I roll over and I see them.”

“Who?”

Brian, curls loose and splayed out on the pillow. Freddie, cheek resting on Brian’s shoulder and arm thrown far enough over his chest that his fingers brush John’s ribs. Roger, pushing the door open with his hip, hands occupied by a tray, smile growing across his face.

“My boys,” he says.

“And then what?”

And then what? That’s none of this stranger’s business. For some reason his mouth is running ahead of his brain anyway. “Rog comes up and kisses me. It’s really short and sweet, or it is until I drag him back down, and then he gives me a real one. You ever had a kiss so good it makes your toes curl?”

The man sighs again. “No,” he says shortly.

“I’m sorry. Anyway, he kisses me like _that_. Freddie’s waking up really slowly until he notices what’s going on. He’s happy to see me. I mean—” he gestures crudely. “You know? And then—”

“I think I don’t want to hear about your dream anymore.”

John takes a sip of his tea. “Oh,” he says coolly.

“Can you tell me anything else about Virida?”

“I’d rather talk about my dream.”

“I don’t want to hear about your dream,” the man snaps.

Rude.

They’re saved by a man pulling into the round gravel driveway on a transport speeder. He jogs to the base of the limestone steps and then up them, a process which takes at least a minute. When he finally gets to the top he’s out of breath. “Prenter,” he pants.

The man glances over, bored. “What?”

“We have business to discuss.”

“I’m busy.”

“That can wait. It’s urgent.”

Prenter sends the man a glare, but after a beat he stands gracefully. “I’m sorry, John. We’ll get back to this.”

John hums noncommittedly as Prenter follows the man inside. The door has a red cross above it.

Hospital.

Is he in a hospital?

“More tea?” the nurse asks.

He shakes his head slowly. “Thanks, no.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?” she asks. “It will help you in the healing process.”

He does feel odd. Perhaps he’s hurt after all. “Do you know why I was admitted here?”

“Sorry, sir. Patient records are strictly confidential. I’m not privy to them.”

Huh. That doesn’t help much. “I think I’d like to go rest.”

“Alright. Let me show you to your room.”

“That’s alright. I can find my own way.” He stands, then hesitates for a minute. “What’s my room number?”

She tells him. “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

He mumbles something that he thinks is a no. In all honesty it’s hard to remember. The world starts spinning as soon as he starts walking, and he barely makes it to the door without keeling over. As soon as he’s out of her view he leans heavily on a wall.

What number did she say again?

Gods, what medicine did they even give him?

“He’s still weak,” a voice says.

Yeah. Whoever that was, they got that right.

“So? He’s of no use after this. Once he tells us we’ve got at least one ship made, and who knows how many more? Who cares if he dies in the process?”

That one makes him blink.

“We can’t get that information if he dies first,” the original voice counters, irate. John recognizes it now as Prenter.

“Listen to me, senator. If you hadn’t let the other one slip through your fingers—”

“That wasn’t my fault and you know it.”

“Oh? And whose fault was it that you were on a smuggler’s moon in the first place?”

That shuts Prenter up.

“Farrokh Bulsara is an interstellar fugitive, as are the rest of them,” the voice continues, and John’s heart sinks. _Freddie._ “They’re all going to wind up in the exact same place at the end of the day and you know that. You either get whatever information he has or he dies from you trying, do you understand me? You can’t afford to get soft.”

“I understand. It’s just—”

“There are no _ifs._ Every second the four of them roam free they have a higher chance of converting more people to their cursed cause. Every second they’re free they do more damage to what this empire stands for. If you have any problem in serving my agenda you can very easily be replaced.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Prenter says crisply. “I’m on your side. The truth serum isn’t working, but I’m sure we have other methods. Tell me what I need to do.”

Truth serum. That’s what it is.

He presses the heels of his palms to his eyes until he sees sparks. It doesn’t help clear the fogginess but it does make him feel a little more corporeal for a short moment, and that at least is worth it.

When he opens his eyes he peaks around the corner just far enough to make out Prenter and his companion heading in the other direction. A look through the back door tells him the nurse has vacated the patio. The man’s speeder is still parked below.

He glances down the hall again but Prenter and the man are already gone.

He can do this. He can do this.

He leans against the wall heavily until he get to the patio, crossing it unsteadily until he can lean against the rail and make his way down the staircase. He jumps into the driver’s seat—more like falls but it’s _almost_ graceful—and lowers the back quickly until he’s laying down, hidden from view.

The keys aren’t there and the engine is off, but there’s a long-distance radio. That’s all he needs.

He strains to reach it, flicking it on quickly before turning the dial to the Galactic Guard’s frequency. A burst of static reaches him and he grabs the microphone, pushing the button on the side.

“Copy? Over.”

Static crackles again before a voice hesitantly responds, “Station One responding. Is immediate assistance required? Over.”

He lets out a breath. “This is Transport Ship, uh…” His mind draws a blank for a minute until it’s filled suddenly with Brian’s face smiling in the Orion light. “This is Transport Ship _Believer_. We’ve gotten a little turned around. Requesting immediate docking so we can get our bearings straight. Over.”

The voice on the other end seems to hesitate a moment before answering. “ _Believer_ , you’re requesting landing on military planet Deneb 3. Unless it’s an emergency that’s a hard negative. Over.”

Deneb 3. Any other planet and he’d feel confident in his ability to find a way back to the rebels who seem to lurk in every corner of the galaxy these days. As it is…

“Freight Ship _Believer_ , interrogative,” a new voice says, “we’re not picking you up on any radar. Can you verify—”

He switches channels quickly.  

Smuggler’s frequencies; rebels, vagrants, anything. If he can find one—

But no. That won’t help him, not without a way to decrypt it. Those keys are few and far between and the only one he’s aware of at all is back on the ship.

The whine of Prenter’s voice reaches him from across the patio.

Shit.

He needs to get out of here now. He can’t stay here; he can’t stay at this hospital and he can’t stay on this planet.

He reaches below the wheel until his fingers meet a bundle of wires. He pulls it out and sorts through them quickly.

“Where is he?” Prenter asks, far away but getting closer.

“I sent him to his room, senator,” the nurse’s voice replies.

_Ground. Radio. Battery. That’s hot, don’t touch that. Transmission._

_Transmission._

He rips wires apart as quietly as he can.

“Did you see him go up?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

All it takes is a few touches. He grazes two lengths of copper together quickly, carefully, just like he’s done a thousand times, just like he’d taught Freddie and Brian and Roger, _strip it and then bump them together._

_Gentle like a lover,_ Roger had joked, and when John had given him a kiss to shut him up he’d bitten John’s lip.

Gentle like a lover. The engine sputters then roars to life.

“Stop!” someone screams behind him.

He doesn’t even look backward before slamming the gas down, and the speeder shoots off.

The world starts spinning again, speeding by and making him sick.

He can do this. He can do this.

He needs to.

The highway is long and completely clear when he pulls onto it: not a car in sight, not a building or town or even a sign. Nothing.

He pushes the engine until it’s roaring, until he’s going faster down the straight stretch than he think he’s ever moved in his life. Only then does he take a hand off the wheel to clumsily grip the radio again. He flips to a smugglers’ frequency and listens to the broken up crackling of the encoded messages.

“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” he tries.

There’s no response, or if there is then he can’t hear it.

Red and blue lights appear in the rear view mirror.

“Hello?” he tries again. “Copy?”

The speeder catches up quicker than he thought it would. They’re fast, faster even than whatever glamorized piece of junk Prenter’s friend was driving around. A car chase wouldn’t do him well.

They have to know exactly who he is. He’s the only civilian on this planet, let alone the only fugitive. They’ll know him in a second.

He lets his foot fall on the brakes and pulls slowly off to the shoulder.

Maybe they’ll just kill him. They have to know he won’t betray his lovers like that. They have to know he’d sooner die anyway. All they’ll be doing by keeping him alive is wasting time and resources.

No. They have plenty of both of those.

The speeder comes to a full stop and he kills the engine. The lights behind him continue to blink. The officer behind the wheel has yet to appear.

He lays the seat down again and looks up at the sky. It’s blue, blue like Roger’s eyes. The seas on Virida are supposed to be this color.

He’s never going to see Virida.

Maybe they’ll be happy without him. Old legends of Sirius aside, his lovers have survived this long on their own. They haven’t had him around all that long. Maybe they’ll be okay. Maybe Brian and Roger will find Freddie and the three of them will be okay. He hopes they live the rest of their days laughing and that they don’t think of him too often. He hopes they don’t tear themselves apart.

Well. Maybe they can think of him every now and then. That’d be nice.

He lets himself fall into the blue of the sky above him as his vision blurs. Maybe he’s crying. He has no idea either way.

There’s a warm wisp of a presence at the back of his brain; a thought maybe, or maybe he’s truly losing it now. Something about it reminds him of Freddie and all at once he can’t stop the words pushing up through his chest. He lets them tumble out. His voice isn’t as sweet as Freddie’s and never will be, but for once it doesn’t really matter. _“In the mist of a hazier day they called me to arms and I fought for you. Now baby blue take me, my dreamer, believer—”_

“Stop,” a voice says. “We don’t sing that here.”

He turns. The officer is looking down at him, eyes solemn. “You’re from Nova Terra,” he says, and his voice breaks.

“And you’re not.”

The blue sky is going very dark. Her face is going very dark.

She sighs. “What you are, I think, is very lucky.”

That’s the last thing he hears.

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna post this but we were moving houses and I somehow packed my laptop into a box? Instead of my backpack? It's been hidden away for quite some time but we're now reunited and it feels so good. 
> 
> Anyway, here's some angst and a little bit more history/plot going around as well. As always thanks for reading and hit me with any thoughts/questions/concerns in the comments!


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